


Salt And Rust

by Voiid_Vagabond (Saturn_the_Almighty)



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dreams, Dreamsharing, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Sickfic, Spirk Are Soulmates, The standard Hanahaki warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28341819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturn_the_Almighty/pseuds/Voiid_Vagabond
Summary: "That's a coreopsis flower." Flowers do not belong inside Vulcans.or, Spock contracts the Hanahaki Disease.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 118





	Salt And Rust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistyP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyP/gifts).



> If you've already seen this fic let's just pretend you didn't ;)))

It starts on a surface mission.

Well, no. _It_ doesn't start then. _It_ started a long time ago. The coughing starts on a surface mission.

Spock is wandering around their landing point, tricorder in hand and body securely protected by a full-body suit. The entire away team is wearing them, the atmosphere not suitable for any nitrogen/oxygen breathing being to exist in. There is an unfortunate spacecraft crash that needs to be inspected. They've landed for the express purpose of locating the ship logs stored in its blackbox. Maybe they can deduce why exactly it crashed. Spock expected the actual crash site to be more than a superheated pile of shrapnel. And he doesn't know _why_ he expected it. Their missions almost never go without a hitch.

And even less often when Bones isn't present.

The landing party is small, just him and Kirk and three very physically capable security officers. Spock wishes the dense layer of cloudy gasses between them and the Enterprise would allow for remote exploration of the crash site. But alas. Not without a hitch. They are reduced to beaming down to the surface, setting up a temporary command base and piloting the remote exploration vehicles from the ground.

Spock is the only one familiar enough with the kind of robotics they have to be able to drive them around the crash site and sift through the rubble while the rest of the away team stare at the viewscreens displaying what the robots see.

Kirk is standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking out of the tent and into the fuzzy distance as if he’ll be able to see anything. He’s lost in thought, Spock knows, and his helmet is turned just enough for Spock to see the curve of his brow, the way it swoops down into his nose and shimmer in his eyes as he stares. From an objective point of view, his captain is attractive. From a logical point of view, he is. From an emotional point of view, _he is._

It's not that Vulcans don't fall in love. It's just not something that is ever announced. It is a private affair, courting.

Spock has decided to take it a step further and never admit that he has feelings for his captain.

In the long run, he assumes, it's better for them both.

If the universe wanted them to be together it wouldn't have made Spock half Vulcan, wouldn't have made them captain and first officer, wouldn't have put such an insurmountable chasm between them. The most he can ask for is friendship. That has to be enough.

Spock is distracted from his work by his captain, something that happens a lot more often than he's willing to admit. He blinks, clearing his head of thoughts and begins to turn back to his work.

And then he coughs.

It's just a tickle at first, nothing to even speak up about. But it keeps going and he keeps breathing through them until it feels like someone's stuffed cotton down his windpipe and he's gasping huge breaths in through his open mouth and the exhale wracks his chest with convulsions. His eyes start to water pretty soon and he has to put down the navigation console because he can't see what he's doing.

Kirk finds him three breaths and fifteen seconds of agony later. A hand alights on his shoulder and stays there, a concerned helmeted face staring back at him through his watery eyes.

"Transporter room," Spock hears through the sounds of his coughing. "Beam up Mr. Spock and have him sent to medbay immediately." It feels like there's something _in his chest_ that he just needs to keep trying to get up. Like if he tries hard enough, coughs violently enough it'll come up and clear his lungs and he can get back to work.

Spock only barely registers being ushered into medbay and sat down on a biobed. By the time his senses clear again his chest, his lungs, his throat are all back to normal. As normal as he can be, Spock reminds himself.

Bones gives him a glass of water and tells him to be careful.

"I always am, Doctor," Spock assures him. Bones stares at him as he leaves medbay, hands on his hips. Spock is quiet through the rest of his shift. He relieves Sulu and takes his position as acting Captain, awaiting the success of their mission.

The entire bridge crew is just as quiet, but Spock knows this to be because they don't know how to deal with him on his own very well. It's easier on _everyone_ to just match his energy until either Bones or Kirk are present.

Spock is thinking.

He doesn't get sick from common illnesses. There are preventative measures for that kind of thing. The odds of him inhaling some kind of foreign particle are near-zero, the entire team was wearing pressurized suits. Spock, for as long as he thinks about it, cannot come up with a logical reason for his coughing fit.

He puts the thought aside until the ship's simulated night cycle when he and Kirk are both preparing for bed.

"Captain," he prompts, re-entering their shared bathroom and leaning gently against the open doorway after leaving to change into his nightly meditation robes. Kirk has a washcloth over his face but still hums at him an encouragement to go on.

"I am—” he pauses for a fraction of a second, his mind flicking rapidly between words to find the one that best suits what he needs to convey, "concerned."

Kirk stops dead, dropping his hands and meeting Spock's eyes.

"About what, Spock?" He drops the 'Mr.' and Spock makes a note to refer to him as 'Jim.'

"About my coughing fit earlier." Spock is not one to sugar-coat. It is something he never managed to pick up from his mother. He is glad. It is a hindrance.

"I am entirely unaware of its origins. I wish to allot time to consult Dr. McCoy about it further," Spock takes a breath and Kirk wrings out his washcloth. His entire arm tenses up with the movement, muscles flexing and twisting, the veins in his hands pronounced.

Spock's eyes alight on the mirror above the sink. He watches Kirk's reflection. "If you would allow."

"Of course." Kirk's answer comes immediately, seemingly without any thought. Spock thinks for a wonderful moment that he might have said yes to whatever Spock had suggested.

"Whatever you need, Spock," he smiles, the way he does… it's unlike anything Spock has seen. It sounds illogical when he whispers it to himself in the dead darkness but it is true nonetheless. _Unlike anything._

Spock covers his mouth in time to muffle the sound of him clearing his throat. Kirk frowns, turns to him. Spock takes a single step back into his room and coughs once.

Then Kirk is in his room and kneeling in front of him as Spock blinks himself back to awareness. He must have blacked out for a moment. His heart races at the thought. Kirk's hands are barely ghosting over his thighs as he leans forward to make sure Spock is okay. There is worry in his eyes. Spock can feel it surging where his hands make contact, strong enough to be felt through cloth. He strengthens his shields and the communicated feeling fades.

"Jim… How long was I—”

"Only a few seconds," Kirk's eyes are glassy with emotion, "had a few pretty bad coughs, though, you…" he trails off. "There was blood, um, on the last one."

Spock instinctively runs his tongue over his lips, tasting the coppery teal mess that's dribbled out the corner. He glances down at himself, ungracefully collapsed on the ground His robes are crumpled, the pale color looking not unlike the sand dunes on Vulcan. He glances up. Kirk's light grey shirt has a stain near the shoulder. New, not dried. It's teal too. He puts the pieces together.

Kirk follows his eyes, sits back, crouched on his heels. His hands leave Spock's thighs and he suddenly feels _so cold_ despite running hotter than a human—

"You uh…" Spock is sure he sees Kirk's cheeks light up with embarrassment as he speaks. "You reached out to me, what was I supposed to do? I guess it was a little like a hug except it felt like you were going to fall apart with how bad your coughs were."

Spock thinks that's illogical, he won't _fall apart_ from simple coughing.

"I hope you don't mind, I think you blacked out during."

Spock does not mind.

He minds that Kirk had just spoken the word _hug_ and Spock apparently was not fully present to experience it. That sends an ache blossoming through his chest, from his sternum, coiling around his ribs.

‘I would like another hug,’ is something he will never say. Kirk stands, but he doesn't offer his hand. Spock would not take his hand even if he did, it would give too much away.

"Would you like help standing?" Kirk asks. He _always_ asks. Spock nods. He is helped to his feet, carefully, Kirk grabbing onto his clothed arm and letting go as soon as he knows Spock can stand on his own.

"As your captain, I think you should go see Bones right now."

Spock raises an eyebrow. Kirk gives him one of those half-smirks, the one that looks cocky to any outsider but infinitely fond to him.

"As your _friend,"_ it really does settle in Spock’s chest, seeping right into his bones like it's there to stay— it aches in a familiar kind of way although he's sure he's never felt it before— "I will ask you to only do what you feel is best for your own health."

Spock, if he were anyone else, might smile at Kirk's consideration. Spock is not anyone else.

"I appreciate your friendship, Jim," he says instead and it feels like a confession of something.

Spock is certain he will feel better after sleeping through the ship’s night cycle. Either way, he will research his affliction with Bones. With the way his illness seems to be progressing, it will soon hinder his work.

* * *

Spock’s work is hindered much sooner than is expected.

He is standing at his science station, as always. He lifts his head from the viewscreen and catches sight of Kirk, leaning halfway over the armrest of his captain’s chair and staring at him with an intensity that makes the hazel of his eyes seem almost coppery. Spock feels the coughs bubbling up in his chest, tries to force them down, tries to hide it because Kirk’s gaze is worried now and that’s not what he wants to see.

The entire bridge crew is staring at him now, concern coloring their faces, and he stands up straight and stumbles to the turbolift, squeezing out the word ‘medbay’ before he steps inside. In an instant between him grasping the control and the doors sliding shut Kirk slips inside with him.

“Spock,” he whispers, kneeling down on the floor when Spock slides down the wall, sweat beginning to show on his brow as he stifles cough after cough.

“Spock, stop it, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Kirk urges. “You need to let them out.”

He doesn’t want to. In all honesty, he’d love to do just about anything _aside_ from coughing more. He wants to be free of the slithering, suffocating feeling in his lungs and maybe have a real hug from Jim, but that’s not going to happen, not now.

He reaches out a hand, finds Kirk’s arm blindly, grabs on.

“I care for you, deeply.” He does not know where it comes from, somewhere deep under the waves of his mind, but it comes out like a plea.

“Spock…”

Spock’s vision blurs, blackening at the edges like burning film, and later he will recall seeing a tear slip down his captain’s cheek.

* * *

I share your pain, I share your pleasure. My mind, my thoughts are shared, as are yours _to me. We are one, in a moment, in a lifetime._

_T’hy’la._

Spock. Spock, listen to me. You’re going to be fine.

_I too, care deeply for you._

_T’hy’la._

* * *

Spock is in a daze when he wakes, laying on a biobed with Bones over him, brow furrowed and scanner in hand. He tries to sit up but the pain in his chest makes it nearly impossible without Bones’ assistance.

He does not see Jim, which makes his heart ache most illogically and his lungs begin to spasm.

Bones frowns, a hand on his back. “Spock, stay calm, I can’t have you hyperventilating while you’ve got something in your lungs.”

A lack of oxygen, while on it's own is enough to make one panic, paired with a complete loss of control over the senses and basic functions make it impossible to remain calm.

"Now, if you feel something rattling around in those Vulcan lungs of yours… I suggest you cough it up. _Now."_

Bones punctuates the order with a none-too-gentle poke at Spock's ribs. He jolts, not so much at the contact but at the sensation it sends up his throat. He ducks his head and coughs lightly into his elbow at the insistence of the tickle just behind his tongue.

It's only supposed to be something small, to sate Bones' impatient curiosity and get rid of the irritation but… Spock's mysterious affliction seems to have other plans. After the courtesy cough comes another. And the one after that is strong enough to make his stone-stiff shoulders shake once. Spock has to suck in a breath between that and the next one and soon he's shuddering with every bone-wracking cough that feels like he's trying to tear the tissue from his lungs out through his windpipe.

Bones has a hand between his shoulder blades as he tries to stop, but forcibly holding back only makes it worse. After the seventh? No, _seventeenth_ of Spock's painful coughs he almost feels something dislodge. It's frantic now, shorter breaths and more light-headedness as his throat constricts with the effort of pushing whatever's in him out.

He spits blood onto his uniform pants first. It's more like a spray, the teal-ish copper hue seeping into the black and disappearing. Bones sets a metal basin in his lap and he spits the next coppery mess dead in the center.

Spock doesn't know how to feel when something soft hits the back of his tongue. He almost gags around it. It's slick with bile and blood as he forces it past his teeth with two final coughs and the medbay is finally draped in silence again aside from Spock's shuddering breaths once he realizes his airways are fully open again.

Bones taps a fingernail against the edge of the bloody basin. The angle of it is making the fluid tip to one edge and the _thing_ in Spock's throat— it's out now— is floating on top of it.

"That's a coreopsis flower." Bones knows things. Not just as a doctor but as a _person._ Spock shouldn't be surprised that he can identify Earth flora quickly and correctly. Spock nods before even glancing down himself. When he does he is not surprised. There is, in fact, a small coreopsis soaking in the basin of blood on his lap.

No surprise, but there should be. Flowers do not belong inside Vulcans. Spock stares at it. He supposes it was originally yellow, but the teal tint of his blood has stained its petals green.

"Why is there a coreopsis in your lungs, Spock? Did you _eat the flowers_ when you were part of the away team?" Bones demands. His eyes too, are trained on the flower. Spock shakes his head minutely. His throat is hoarse from coughing. He tries to pick up the basin to move it from his lap but finds his hands are shaking quite a bit and he sets it back down immediately.

"No… I do not know," Spock says and he is ashamed of how meek and quiet his voice comes out. His throat is scratchy. Bones does not mention that. He takes the basin himself and helps Spock drink some water before lowering him down onto the biobed. There's a frown on his face the whole time and he doesn't say a word but both of those actions run deeper than Spock can see right now. He _aches._

Sleep takes him soon. Bones opens a secure research channel and takes a dive into Earth history.

* * *

"Spock. Spock, wake up. I found it."

Spock's eyes flutter open and there's a faint inkling of alarm at how difficult it is to keep them open. Bones is spinning a hypospray between his fingers as he paces between the biobeds.

"I thought I recognized your… symptoms earlier, so I did some research and it looks like you've contracted an old Earth lovesickness."

Spock raises a skeptical eyebrow at Bones. Bones frowns back at him.

"Hear me out. After first contact, back when Earth first entered the Federation there had to be a wide range of new categories for the kinds of medical anomalies that started cropping up. Lovesickness is just a catch-all for any affection related illnesses."

"Love… sickness." Spock nods slowly, his mind racing quickly towards the logical, obvious, conclusion.

"Yup. Okay, I'll be honest, it surprised me because with the new kinds of relationship therapies we have and the encouragement to communicate it's almost been eradicated." Bones takes a breath and looks ready to launch into an entire lecture.

"Doctor. Get to the point,” Spock interrupts.

"Yes yes. You have the Hanahaki disease."

Spock is struck silent as Bones continues to rattle on about the symptoms and treatment of an illness long thought eradicated. It makes no logical sense that he would have contracted it, yet here he is, sitting on a biobed with roots and stems and flowerheads jammed into every crevice in his chest. The coreopsis flowers have no concept of logic.

Bones does a scan while he’s talking, Spock hears it as static.

He supposes it’s not that much of a shock. _Hanahaki._ He pulls one of the ship’s computers over to his bed and clicks through all the articles Bones had up earlier. A word that crops up 4.167% more often is _‘unrequited.’_ It has to do with the way the disease interacts with one’s brain, the emotional centers, and feeds off those desolate feelings of loneliness, of the abysmal hopelessness that comes with knowing, or at least thinking, that one’s affections are purely one-sided.

“Spock, are you even listening to me? I would’ve thought all this would be _fascinating.”_ Spock looks up as Bones says this, doing a poor impression of himself at the end.

“In any other case, Doctor, perhaps.” Spock hears his voice come out rough, desolate. “But as things stand, according to your research, I may have to consent to a removal surgery.”

Bones starts, almost dropping his scanner. He frowns terribly at Spock, hands itching at his sides like he wants to smack the eyebrows off him.

“No. You’re not doing that.” He says it with finality, and Spock supposes that Bones has thought an awful lot about it. If worse comes to worse, however, he will have no choice and his oath as a medical professional will not allow him to let Spock… expire.

Spock tilts his head fractionally, clasping his hands in front of him on the biobed.

“What are my alternatives?” he starts, rhetorically, “I have the option of professing my unrequited feelings and having the illness spread to my extremities, thus putting too heavy a toll on the plants to allow them to keep my body in a stasis. That will destroy me. _Kill me._ I have the option of getting the plants surgically removed, which I have no doubt you could perform marvelously. With the small and unfortunate side-effect of dissolving any feelings...”

Spock’s mind supplies him with an image of Jim, his love, smiling with a brightness to rival the stars. In a figurative sense. He feels a guilty scrap of panic rise in him as the thought spurs on a fit of coughing that startles not only him and Bones but also nurse Chapel, who breezes into medbay at that moment, stopping in shock as Spock produces _eight_ half- to full-headed coreopsis flowers from his throat.

Bones curses like Spock has _never_ heard him before, turning on his heel and striding into the storage area of medbay, bringing back disinfectant, absorbent towels and a bottle of blueish liquid with a label that Spock’s eyes are too full of tears to read clearly.

His hands are cupped in his lap, holding the eight flowers and a substantial amount of fluid which Bones cleans off him quickly. He waves Chapel over, whose eyes are wide and frantic and Spock almost wants to remind her that it is unprofessional, before he remembers that he is coughing up organic plant matter and that is by no means normal.

Chapel takes the flowers away on another metal dish and Bones reaches up to wipe away at Spock’s mouth, brow furrowed like the canyons on Vulcan. He explains that the blue liquid will help heal his throat which has obviously been worn raw by this point, helps him drink it, and stands to comm the bridge.

Spock shakes his head quickly, not trusting himself to try and speak just yet.

Bones pauses.

“Why not? You’ve been out of commission for a day and half, Spock, I’ll be keeping you here until I can convince you to confess, so Jim’ll need to get your replacement up there as soon as possible.” Bones always sounds fed up with him, to varying extents, but this particular tone is less directed at him and more at the situation as a whole.

“Spock. I won’t tell him the particulars if you don’t want,” he walks the rest of the way to the comm on the wall and hovers his hand over it, “but I swear, the moment you see him next, I want a confession outta you.”

Spock watches in silence as Bones quickly lets Jim know that he won’t be available for duty due to medical complications. He almost doesn’t process what Bones has just insinuated.

“Why do you assume to be familiar with the object of my affections,” Spock croaks, coming out more demanding than questioning.

“When you spend as much time around you as I do, Spock, you pick up things. I can tell, alright? I can see the way you look at Jim, like he hung the stars in the sky. The way you smile at him without ever really smiling.” Bones’ gaze softens and he comes to sit on the edge of the biobed.

“I don’t think you have anything to be afraid of, Spock. It’ll turn out okay. Those flowers have no business winding around your ribs, you hear me?”

Spock nods. He does hear. A small part of him knows that Bones wouldn’t lie to him but can’t shake the fear that things will go horribly wrong.

“I need to hear it. Promise me you will confess next time you see him.”

Spock clears his throat painfully, making brief eye contact with Bones.

“I promise.”

Bones is fully aware of how much merit a Vulcan promise holds, for they are not given out lightly.

* * *

Jim Kirk nearly bolts out of his chair when Lt. Uhura agrees to relieve him. He rushes to medbay as quickly as he can, a feeling of dread seeping into his gut and settling. He trusts Bones implicitly, knows he’ll be doing everything he can for Spock, but there’s the sinking feeling that somehow this is his fault. Like he’s missing something that’s staring him right in the face.

Spock looks up when the doors to medbay swish open and Kirk is struck by the pain in his dark eyes. He’s in the middle of wiping something from his mouth, Kirk recognizes it as a mix of blood and spit. He tries to hide it, balling up his hands in his lap.

“Spock…” That’s all that seems to come out of his mouth recently, like he’s making up for a lack of it. Spock stares at him, his gaze softening some.

“Captain.”

Kirk approaches the biobed, unsure if he should sit or not.

“I came as soon as I could get out of that chair. I’m sorry I dumped you on Bones and left, I swear I wanted to stay—” Spock lets out a sharp breath that sounds like it could be a cough and Kirk snaps his mouth shut. He kneels down by the bed, picking up one of the cloths lying next to him and holds it tightly as Spock coughs into his elbow.

“Let me help.” Spock starts to shake his head. “Please, Spock. I want to. Let me help you.”

Spock relents, allowing Kirk to gently wipe at his mouth.

“Whatever this is, I know you can beat it. You’re strong Spock, between your power of will and Bones’ medical expertise… it’ll be gone in no time.” He says it like he believes it wholeheartedly. Spock is familiar with that tone, hears it almost every day.

“It will be gone soon, one way or another,” Spock mumbles.

Bones has left momentarily to retrieve items from long-term storage. He is not present to confirm whether Spock has followed his recommendation or not. Yet, Spock finds himself opening his mouth to confess.

After all, Vulcans do not lie.

“Jim,” he starts, “I have something to confess.” He lifts his head, eyes falling upon his captain’s face, soft and forgiving, beautiful in it’s form and purpose. Jim bats his eyes, golden eyelashes catching the acetic light from above. He is gorgeous, and Spock can never hope to find such a suitable partner, seeing as he _cannot have him._

His next words get trapped in his throat, held in a metaphorical grasp by twisting, intertwining stems as they push their way between his lungs. A sharp pain blooms in his chest and doubles over, feeling— _hearing_ the tear and snap of leaves inside him.

He gasps in, the rasp of fluttering petals at the back of his throat.

If he was not aware of the situation he might describe it from the outside as “being torn apart.”

Seeing as he _is_ aware of it, Spock elects to define the experience as emotionally straining, bordering on agony.

He perceives— in a semi-lucid state slipping quickly towards unconsciousness— yellow petals, stained green, from the _coreopsis lanceolata_ falling into his lap. He does not have the time nor the frame of mind to estimate the number of petals present but he distinctly picks up on a frantic tone of shouting as his senses fail.

He regrets that he was not able to complete that which he had promised Dr. McCoy.

* * *

“Bones, what’s wrong with him?” Kirk keeps his voice low, hoping not to wake Spock. Bones is drumming his fingers on his desk, head in his other hand and staring a hole into the wall above Spock’s head.

Kirk’s first officer, his beloved friend, his… well, his _love,_ for lack of a better word at the moment, is trapped in a fitful and painful-looking sleep. His eyebrows are pulled together, a very un-Vulcan-like sweat is beading across his forehead. His breaths come in ragged heaves, a reminder of what had come up just before he had passed out.

“What do those flowers mean?” Kirk would be lying if he said his first thought was not one of fear regarding the fact that he’d just seen the love of his life throw up a few heads of flowers and conk out in the middle of a conversation.

He feels, somehow, like he’s at fault. Being the Captain that’s always his assumption. As far as anyone should be concerned _it is._ But the distance he’s been feeling from Spock lately, the glances he feels when Spock thinks he’s not paying attention. It all points to something he’s too unfocused or illogical to notice.

And it’s not often something tears him up so desperately inside, but this is an exception. It’s not all that much of a surprise. Spock has always been the expectation in one way or another.

He’s always felt a connection between them, something that’s made their relationship as Captain and First Officer, and friends, so much easier, so much more well-oiled. Sometimes he’s sure he can communicate with Spock without even speaking. And he wouldn’t be surprised, he knows Vulcans are touch telepaths, that they can form mental bonds with others.

Jim wouldn’t be surprised if they had. After all, he’s always felt close to Spock.

“Jim, he’s going to be fine. There’s a few different ways to get rid of the flowers, one which we’ll try again when he stabilizes and if not… well, then we’ll have to resort to surgery.” Bones doesn’t stop tapping, if anything it gets more pronounced.

“Stabilizes?” Kirk asks, strained. “You mean he’s… _not stable?”_

Bones sighs, easing himself out of his chair and going to stand next to Spock.

“He will wake up again. I can promise you that. It might just be a little more difficult what with the coreopsis monopolizing most of his torso.” Bones sounds tired. A real, palpable kind of tired that sets itself apart from the normal kind of tiredness that comes with the job.

“I’ll uh…” Kirk follows him, almost reaching out to take Spock’s hand on instinct before remembering who it is. “I’ll let Lt. Uhura know that I’ll be occupied for a little longer. How long until he wakes up?”

Bones stares at him, Kirk hates the way he’s looking right through him, but it’s a skill he’s honed over years and years and it’s a habit at this point.

“Maybe about two hours. Get some sleep, Jim, I’ll wake you when he’s up.” Kirk nods, but doesn’t move to leave, instead sitting himself down on the bed next to Spock’s and settling in to wait. Bones sighs like the world’s come crashing down around him and gives Kirk a pat on the shoulder before leaving to go to his adjoining office.

  
  


_“Hello, Jim.” Spock is sitting under a willow in his mind, his mother’s favorite. A woven blanket is under him, providing a barrier between him and red sands that mimic those on Vulcan. He does not need to open his eyes to know that Jim is there. His friend often appears in his mind at times like these._

_It helps soothe him._

_“I help soothe your mind?” Jim’s voice sounds more surprised than usual, but that is not cause for alarm._

_Spock cracks open one eye, observes Jim standing before him in a pair of washed jeans and a light moss green button-up shirt that he has rolled three times over so the end sits approximately three-quarters of the way up his forearms._

_He opens his other eye fully and blinks twice. Jim thinks his eyes are a gorgeous color, dark brown like the richest chocolate, expensive and delicious._

_“I was not aware that you thought this of my eye color.” It is not logical to converse so naturally with that which is a mental figment, yet he indulges._

_“Spock?” Jim’s voice is full of worry. Spock has always gone to lengths to ensure that the Jim which he builds in his mind as a respite and an indulgence during rest is_ never _worried for him._

_“Spock, I’m not a figment. You haven’t built me. How am I here anyway? Where is this?”_

_Spock rises, his shifted center of gravity allowing him to sink farther into the sand. He stares, taking in the details of the Jim who stands before him. It is nothing new that he who shares his mind would be allowed to know the barest of his surface thoughts. But that was when Spock had assumed it was his own mind’s creation._

_“I believe,” it would be prudent not to lie, in the event that somehow his t’hy’la and his captain has somehow come to share his resting mindscape. Not uncommon for bondmates, yet… “Jim, you and I are sharing mindscape.”_

_Jim’s eyes widen. He steps forward, his bare feet washed over by the fine grains of ferric sand. “I’m in your mind?” he asks. “How?” without waiting for an answer to his first query._

_“Unclear,” Spock begins,” although it is entirely possible it is related to us being_ —”

_Spock stops. It is never his intention to abort his sentences, although with the glaring knowledge that he is speaking now to his_ actual _captain he must rethink the words that were about to leave him. He cannot introduce the concept of t’hy’la in such a delicate place, further not while he is suffering._

_Suffering._

_The ground erupts with minute tremors, the sand shifting and sliding to give way to the innumerable croppings of_ coreopsis lanceolata _that begin to surround them. Soon, the entire landscape, as far as either of them can see, is crowded with them, a similial ocean of flowers. Spock feels his chest constrict for a moment, and then he opens his mouth to amend his words and Jim shouts._

_“Spock, they_ — _” He reaches out, wanting to help, and isn’t that the long and the short of it, Spock doesn’t know how to let him help, all he feels is the consuming pressure of flowers filling his throat and mouth and spilling out onto the ground._

_He is supposed to be safe, in his mind. He is supposed to be isolated, in his mind._

_And yet…_

_And yet. Yet, Jim has been drawn by their connection, by their bond, one that Spock has always been aware of and one that perhaps even Jim has known about in one way or another. And yet he is plagued, even here, by the physical proof of his human emotions, damning things made of petals and tears._

_And yet he still cannot say it._

* * *

Kirk wakes up with a start, the afterimage of Spock grabbing onto a cluster of flowers and pulling them out of his mouth still flashing behind his eyes.

He blinks his vision back to the present, crawling out of the biobed and stumbling to Spock’s bedside where he’s only just waking up himself.

Spock meets his eyes for only a moment before closing them as he takes two heavy, steadying breaths.

“Jim, I am in love with you.”

When people say “the universe stopped”, it’s usually an overstatement. An attempt to make the moment seem more significant than it was, in reality. Jim Kirk doesn’t overstate. The universe, for lack of a better description, pauses it’s movement for a dizzying second as Spock’s words wash over him.

He can’t tell if he’s still in a dream, almost wants to ask Spock if they are. But he looks into those chocolate eyes and suddenly it’s so clear. Kirk has to fight a smile while he puts together an appropriate reply. Spock is struggling to get breaths out.

“Me too.”

Jim could’ve done better but, in the moment, it’s all that matters.

“I do too, Spock, I love you,” and it is the truest thing he’s said. “I love you more than I think I’ve ever loved anyone before.” He watches with a warmth impossible to him filling his chest, Spock take his hand gently between his own and close his eyes, this time in undeniable contentment.

“You are sure?” There is hope in his voice. Jim nods, letting his grin spread across his face.

“Sure as the stars are bright, Spock, I do, I—”

“Jim, I apologize for the worry I have caused you. I love you.” He squeezes Jim’s hand and opens his eyes.

“Spock, you didn’t have to keep this from me. Not when it was hurting you so much. I will never not love you. Not now, not in any universe.” Jim almost says ‘I promise’ but the declaration itself serves the purpose.

Spock nods. “T’hy’la, I will elect not to keep things from you any longer. If it would bring you security.”

Jim reminds himself to ask Spock what t’hy’la means a little later, but for now it’s enough. Everything… it’s enough.

“It will bring me security.” He smiles again, sure that he will never stop smiling as long as he knows Spock loves him.

“Now, how are those flowers?”

“No longer present, Jim,” Spock admits. “If you would like more information on my illness, now that it has passed I would not be opposed to educating you.”

Jim smiles. “Maybe later, Spock. For now… why don’t I go and fetch Bones, let him know there’s no need for a surgery?” He poses the last sentence as a pseudo-question, to which Spock nods.

“And, Spock?” Jim stops at the doorframe, one hand on it, to turn back. “The _coreopsis lanceolata_ happens to be my favorite flower.”

With that, he leaves, and Spock lays back against the headboard with a heavy breath.

“You will forgive me, Captain, if I require ample time to be in the presence of another such flower,” he says, weary.

“Of course, commander.” Jim grins at him. “Love you,” he says like a fact. Like it’s as simple to admit as breathing is for him.

“And I as well,” Spock replies. Perhaps it is. A simple feeling.


End file.
